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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23233360">before the weather changes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/poindextears/pseuds/poindextears'>poindextears</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Good Haven universe [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Check Please! (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1950s style, 5+1 Things, :), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Family Feels, First Date, First Kiss, If you count this as a happy ending, Kent and Dex are still best friends for some reason, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, This covers a span of like ten years, Time Travel, he'll be here though, i'm back at it again with the historical shit, just for reference, nursey doesn't appear until the 5th part, trust me - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:48:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,034</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23233360</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/poindextears/pseuds/poindextears</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Will was kissed by other people, and one time he kissed back— historical AU style.</p><p>This goes along with <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089940?view_full_work=true">love finds you</a>, but makes sense as a standalone for the most part. It's semi-self-indulgent, but some folks on Tumblr said they'd read it, so here we are.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Derek "Nursey" Nurse/William "Dex" Poindexter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Good Haven universe [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582840</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1950</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Day 5 of quarantine: I'm finally posting this! Set in the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089940?view_full_work=true">love finds you</a> universe, this is a little study of timewarp!Dex's adolescence, from age fifteen to twenty-five. And don't take the "kiss" thing too literally, because two of these are familial interactions, and another is platonic, so only two have specifically romantic intention. Anyway, it'll make more sense when you read.</p><p>This is so self-indulgent and meta I'm almost a little embarrassed, but I love this universe, and a few people on Tumblr said they'd be down for this. So without further ado. Part 1/6.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>i.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>July 1950</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will knows Pa has to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been inevitable for weeks. He’s seen all the buildup, all the signs that pointed to this day arriving. He listened to President Truman’s speech on the radio two weeks ago, when news spread that the Communists had moved to invade South Korea. He saw the letter come in the mail, watched his parents read it together, just before sitting down to family dinner after a long day of work. He watched Pa pack his things, neatly, into the duffel bag that had been collecting dust in the hallway closet for five years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will knows war. He knows when it’s coming, and he knows what it means. He knows that what Pa does is noble, that he fights the brave fight so the land of the free can remain free. But that doesn’t mean today is easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a beautiful day, a Sunday— sunshine rains down on downtown Good Haven, and the air is temperate for the first time in quite awhile; the days on the farm have been long and sweltering so far this summer. Today, there’s a bit of a breeze, and not a cloud in the sky. Old brick and wooden buildings pass them by, familiar spaces Will has known all his life. There are a good deal of people out and about, with most church services over by this point in the morning. Annie’s Diner is as crowded as always.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mass was their first objective this morning— bright and early at 7:30. Will is still in his church clothes— shorts and a collared shirt, with knee socks and his best shoes. Ma is wearing her hat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, he sits between his parents in Pa’s truck. It used to seat the three of them relatively comfortably, but at thirteen, Will is starting to hit his growth spurt, all gangly limbs and exponentially increasing height, and his parents have been talking about trading in the pickup for something a little better on seating— that is, they </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>been, before Pa’s induction letter came in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He folds his hands together in his lap. Pa is to his right, and Ma to his left— she’s always hated driving, but insisted she drive them to the bus station, so Pa could rest. And although he doesn’t have to be, Will is pressed up against Pa’s side— he feels his father’s warmth, the weight of his shoulder and his leg, his upright stature and the steady cadence of his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pa is okay. Will should be okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And besides, this isn’t even the first time Will has had to say goodbye. He was six when Pa was deployed to fight the Japanese in 1941. Pa dressed in his uniform, and Will went with Ma to the bus station and said goodbye, just like they’re doing today. He knows this feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just that Will doesn’t remember that </span>
  <em>
    <span>day</span>
  </em>
  <span> too vividly. He knows it was Christmastime, and he knows what happened in Hawaii that sent the US soldiers into the fight. He has one single memory of Pa looking back to smile and wave before he got on the bus that cold winter day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers plenty else about the war— helping Ma around the farm, daily news and ration books and the victory garden, Ma reading him Pa’s letters on the sofa next to the radio. He was nine when Pa got home, and he remembers </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> very well— him walking up the driveway in his uniform, three and a half years older but still very much the same man, the same Pa, with the same rare but warm smile and the same strong arms that Will rushed into the second he saw him. He remembers laughing and crying his pa’s name over and over again. He remembers Pa kissing Ma and their little welcome home party and the feeling of everyone finally being home and where they belonged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he can’t remember much about the actual day Pa had to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He won’t forget today the way he forgot December 15th, 1941. He’s determined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t talk in the car, but it’s not a painful silence. It’s the comfortable kind of silence you share with the people you love. The radio is on, but the volume is faint, and Will isn’t paying attention anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he watches his father’s hands. Pa is wearing his gloves, and he’s holding his hat in his lap. Ma ironed his suit this morning, though it scarcely needed it, and Will glances now at the various badges and stripes up and down the sleeves and breast of the dark blue jacket. There are eight gold buttons. (They’re not real gold. That would be heavy.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will isn’t a touchy-feely person, and neither is Pa, but in this moment Will feels the unexplainable urge to squeeze his dad’s hand, to lean his weight into him, to feel him here while he’s still on this continent. All at once, he realizes he’s almost shaking— and then, like Pa can read his mind, Pa’s gloved hand is on his knee, and he’s looking down at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is gentler than usual. “Doing okay, junior?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will swallows, and for a second, all the words in the world get caught in his throat. Then he forces himself to nod. “Yes, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pa rubs his knee, but says nothing, and in that brief gesture Will knows he doesn’t believe him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans into his shoulder anyway, and Pa puts his arm around him. They stay that way for the whole next ten minutes, until they reach the bus station.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s relatively crowded, and the travelers are a mixed bag— not all servicemen, but there are a few mixed in. Pa’s bus will take him south to Portland, where he’ll board a different bus that will take him to a plane that will take him to another plane that will take him to a boat that will take him to Korea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will watches Pa take his duffel out of the truck and fix his hat onto his head. He’s still not nearly as tall as Pa— although he’s hoping he’ll get there, maybe even by the time Pa gets home— but in a lot of other ways, Will is his father’s spitting image; they have the same tufty ginger hair and freckly, fair skin and oversized ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will’s stomach clenches up, and he’s seized by that same panic from the car, the desperation to hold on. Pa is composed, and so is Ma; she holds her head high as she extends a hand for Will to take.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’ve done this before, Will reminds himself. This is not new.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk to bus stop eight, where the bus is already here and boarding. It’s tall and stinky and full of passengers, mostly families traveling for the summer holidays. Panic seizes Will’s chest as he realizes how quickly this is all going to happen. He knows life without Pa, but it’s been five years since he came home from Japan, and Will has gotten used to the way the world works when his whole family is together at home. He’s taken it for granted, and life is changing again, far too soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pa says goodbye to Ma first. Will doesn’t listen to what they say, because their words are mostly too soft for him to hear, and he’s more focused on the ugly bus, rocking back and forth on the heels of his dress shoes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Pa kneels in front of him, puts his hands on both of his shoulders. His hat casts a little shadow over his face, and Will tries to memorize the sincerity in his eyes, the gentle squeeze of his hands on either of his arms, the warm light of the summer day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pa starts with, “I need you to take good care of your ma for me, you hear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, sir,” Will replies, begging himself to stay steady no matter how tight his stomach might feel. “I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not like last time,” Pa adds. “You were little last time. You’re in high school now. You’re the man of the house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as he wants to tell Pa he’s not technically in high school yet, not until September, Will knows that’s not important right now. He takes a deep breath. The man of the house— he can do this. He can take care of Ma. “I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s very important to me that you understand that,” Pa says, with that quiet sincerity, the no-nonsense lilt he always carries with him. “You help her around the house, and hold up the farm, you understand? You be good for her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will nods. “Yes, sir.” He won’t cry— he hasn’t cried in a long time— but he wishes in that moment that he could stop this war so Pa could stay home. Still, he reasons with himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pa loves his job. He loves his country. This is what he’s meant to do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The bus driver is making a final boarding call. “Pa?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blurts out the words like they’ll slip away if he doesn’t. “I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, too,” Pa replies, unhesitating, unwavering. Then, “C’mere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls him into a hug as tight as the one they shared on the day Pa came home— maybe tighter, Will thinks, as he buries his head in his father’s shoulder. His breath catches in his throat, but he wills himself to be calm, to be strong. He’s the man of the house now. He can’t let Pa down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a long hug, a warm one. When they break apart, Pa presses a firm kiss to Will’s forehead. “Make me proud, junior.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will,” he replies, meeting his father’s eyes. “I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the most important promise he’s ever made.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pa rises to his feet, kisses Ma’s hand, and ruffles Will’s fiery hair. He gives his bag to the bus driver, and crosses the pavement to where the steps ascend onto the ugly thing. Halfway up them, he turns— just the way he did last time, Will thinks to himself— and tips his hat. Will salutes him. Ma takes his free hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He disappears through the doors a moment later, and Will watches his silhouette, hat and jacket, as he walks to a seat and takes it next to the window. They wave goodbye, from the moment the bus pulls away until its taillights fade onto the road and into the summer afternoon. Only then does Will allow himself to fall into Ma’s arms, a little shivery and less than okay, but safe with her— always safe with her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did good, Will,” she tells him, her cheek pressed to the top of his head. “Your papa’s proud of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He says I’m the man of the house now,” Will tells her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ma wears the most bittersweet smile he’s ever seen. “That’s right,” she says. “You are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’ll—” Will says. “I’ll take care of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” she says, eyes full, and she nods. “Okay, darling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They leave the depot hand-in-hand. Will will keep his promise— he’ll never forget this day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Pa will never come home.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 1951</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>ii.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>September 1951</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Kent sleeps over all the time.</p><p>It’s not exactly so ritual that it’s a tradition, but Ma is practically best friends with Kent’s mama, and Will has grown up with Kenny; the two boys have been attached at the hip since before they learned to walk and talk. Will likes sleeping over Kent’s house, but he likes it better when Kent comes over to his— they can ride their bikes or play around in the barn all afternoon, eat whatever Ma makes for dinner, listen to their favorite radio show, and sit in Will’s room talking with the lamp on until hours long past their bedtime. Sometimes Kent brings over his sports magazines, or they read Will’s latest coveted comic book. Will lets Kent have his bed, so he spends those nights on the floor in a sleeping bag. With his best friend nearby, they’re some of his best-slept.</p><p>Sleeping has been harder for him in the past year. Last November, when the two men in uniform showed up on their doorstep, Will’s world turned upside down. Pa being away was at least familiar before— but now there’s a boxed flag on the mantel, a trunk of his things collecting dust, a constant, soul-weighing knowledge that he’s never coming home. Ma has changed— oh, sure, she’s still Ma, but she carries herself differently now, works harder, faces the world tougher. Will is pretty sure she doesn’t know that he can hear her crying some nights in her room.</p><p>It’s okay. Will does that at night sometimes, too.</p><p>Tonight, though, she’s asleep. Her lamp clicked off at least an hour and a half ago, and there hasn’t been a sound since Will heard her do her nightly prayers. It’s a comforting silence.</p><p>Will stares at his bedroom ceiling, hands folded on his chest. He and Kent are clustered on his bed, which is covered in open magazines and a scattered deck of cards. Kent’s nose is buried deep in his brand new Hendy’s Hockey Guide, and he’s flipping through it vigorously, stopping every couple pages to squint at something.</p><p>Will eyes the cover. There’s a goalie on it this year— it’s Chuck Rayner of the New York Rangers, staring into the camera with a smile. Will doesn’t like the Rangers, but it’s a nifty cover.</p><p>Kent pushes his hair back. His forehead is plagued by golden cowlicks that just won’t ever seem to stay in place, which means he’s constantly fixing his hair. “I want to go to a hockey game,” he announces.</p><p>“Me, too,” Will replies, closing his eyes to allow himself to picture it. He and Kent both play hockey, but they haven’t been to a game outside the town rink. “In Boston.”</p><p>“Yuck.” When he opens his eyes, Kent is grimacing over the top of the magazine. “I don’t like the Bruins.”</p><p>Will folds his arms and studies his best friend. They’re both wearing pajamas— but where Will wears blue plaid, Kent is unafraid to wear pale pink. It’s very characteristic of Kent to dress exactly how he wants, without caring at all what anybody else thinks. “If you don’t like the Bruins, who <em> do </em> you like?”</p><p>“The Black Hawks.” When Will frowns at him, Kent shrugs. “They have good uniforms. Plus, I like Bill Mosienko.”</p><p>Will shrugs back at him. “Traitor.”</p><p>Kent sticks his tongue out at him, then goes back to the book, laying all the way back against the cluster of pillows at the top of Will’s bed. Will leans back next to him, but with his head facing the opposite way, and puts his hands behind his head. He stares at the ceiling again.</p><p>Kent’s leg rocks next to him. Those pink pants— Will squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t seem to stop going over the same thing in his mind, and it has nothing to do with hockey or pajamas.</p><p>It’s been bothering him for months— God, no. Years. It started as a non-issue, or maybe the lack of an issue at all, but has been growing and growing as high school progresses. For awhile, he denied that it was even happening, but he can’t shake it anymore— it’s occupying too much of his attention for him to deny it, lest he drive himself crazy.</p><p>He thought he’d start liking girls in high school. Instead, he started looking at boys.</p><p>He wants to be normal— it’d be easier that way. But he can’t. He’s tried. It’s not that he wants to kiss a boy— or, maybe he does, but he doesn’t want to kiss a <em> particular </em> boy. He just knows in his heart that he’s been noticing boys the way boys his age are supposed to notice girls.</p><p>Just like Kenny does.</p><p>And keeping it from <em> Kenny </em> is the part that feels the most wrong— because it’s Kenny; it’s his best friend, his metaphorical blood brother. It’s the person who knows him best in the world, next to Ma, and this is something Ma just can’t know. Kenny can— he <em> should </em> know. Because he would know precisely, <em> exactly </em> how he feels.</p><p>Will turns the thought over in his head a few times.</p><p>He takes a deep breath, then snaps his eyes open. “Hey… Kenny?”</p><p>He hears the sound of a page turning. “Yes, this is Kenny speaking.”</p><p>Will breathes in again. Kent turns another page, and he knows he’s been quiet too long when he asks, “Are you okay?”</p><p>“I…” Will doesn’t know how to answer that. In this <em> moment </em>, he’s okay, but overall, it’s a little more complicated than that. “You know how you said you like Robby at school?”</p><p>Will hears Kent close his book, and he sits up halfway, so Will does, too, and they meet eyes— for a second, at least. “Yes,” Kent says.</p><p>Will breaks his gaze to stare into his own lap, and he can already feel his face burning up, already feel the embarrassment eating at him— but it’s just Kenny, it’s just him; this should be okay. He should just say it. Kenny will understand.</p><p>“Well… what if I felt that way, too?”</p><p>It’s a small-voiced sentence, but it’s there. He feels Kent lean forward, but wrings his hands in his lap and takes a few seconds before he can will himself to meet his eyes again. When he does, Kent’s face is a million things at once— surprise, intrigue, amity— but above all, <em> warmth </em>.</p><p>“You do?” Kent asks. “Or— you think you do?”</p><p>Will can still feel the burning in his face, but he nods, once, twice, three times. “I… think so.”</p><p>Kent is quiet for a few seconds. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face, and though Will feels a weight has lifted off his shoulders, he can’t bring himself to <em> smile </em>, exactly— he teeters on the edge of his shame and waits for Kent’s full reaction.</p><p>“Well…” Kent says finally. “Why don’t you see?”</p><p>Will isn’t able to figure out what he means before Kenny kisses him.</p><p>It’s a brief kiss— Will’s first ever, actually. Kent grabs his face with careful hands, leans forward, and plants one on him.</p><p>It lasts all of three seconds before Kent draws back gently. There’s not much time to process, and the only thing Will can think is that he imagined his first kiss to feel more important than that. It’s not a <em> bad </em> kiss, or a violating one. It’s just… a kiss from his best friend.</p><p>And Will is definitely still blushing— mostly because how else are you supposed to react when you just spilled your biggest secret and then got kissed for the first time?</p><p>Kenny cocks his head as he lets go of his face. “Well?”</p><p>Will looks back at him for a prolonged few seconds, and then says, “It doesn’t work when it’s you.”</p><p>Kent smiles, still— and Will really loves him in that moment, not in the way you love someone you want to kiss but in the way you love someone you always want to keep close just the way they are right now, in the way you love a lifelong friend who feels more like a brother, in the way you love someone you can’t picture your life without. It’s such a <em> Kent </em>smile— a lopsided smirk, a twinkle in his gray-green eyes, hair hanging over his forehead. It’s comfort in a face. It warms Will’s chest in the best way.</p><p>“Same here,” Kent replies, and they laugh together. Will turns himself around to face the same way he is on the bed, and while the heat fades from his face (but not his ears), Kent tosses an arm around his shoulders. “But hey— <em> hey </em>. Thank you.” When Will looks up again, Kent’s face is so close he gets brushed by a stray cowlick. “Dexy. I’m glad you’re like me. I’m glad you told me.”</p><p>“Me, too,” he says, and he means it. In Kent is his very first inkling of pride. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”</p><p>“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “How long have you felt that way?”</p><p>Will tries to trace a date, but falls short. “I’m not sure. Always, maybe. But didn’t know what it was until you started being you.”</p><p>“It’s safe right here.” Kent puts a hand on his own heart. “For all time. Promise.”</p><p>“Thank you, Kenny.”</p><p>Kent wraps him in the hug they’re already halfway to. Will squeezes him tight— Kenny is shorter than him by what feels like a mile, but this hug, for some inexplicable reason, puts them on level ground. When they let go, Will asks, “Can I look at your book?”</p><p>“What? Oh.” Kent hands him the Hendy’s. “For sure.”</p><p>Kent grabs a stray comic book from the disaster on the bed. They’ll have to clean it later— Will’s room is only ever messy when Kent is around— but for now, they leave it be, and they sit and read in warm, safe silence, pressed to each other’s sides in the twin-sized bed.</p><p>Will sleeps safe and sound through the night that night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 1952</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The saga continues. Remember Rosie from chapter whenever of the main story? Let’s have some fun.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>iii.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May 1952</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will takes Rosie Owens to the spring dance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew he was going to ask her. They’ve been neighbors since they were little— albeit not the very closest of friends, but always in school together, always knowing of each other. He likes being her lab partner in chemistry class, and they sometimes see each other at their lockers, because Poindexter is close to Owens in the alphabet. So when the announcement went up about the dance a month ago, Will knew he was going to ask her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Admittedly, he wasn’t the first to jump at the idea of a dance. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>been</span>
  </em>
  <span> to dances, but it’s been a tough spring with Ma not feeling her best, and he thought about sitting this one out— but then Ma found out about it, and she insisted he go and have fun. Not to mention Kent asked Rita, and the two of them hounded him until he finally bought himself a ticket. Plus one for Rosie. He asked her that afternoon, walking over to her house with a couple of daffodils from Ma’s garden. She gave him a big hug and a resounding yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three weeks later, the dance is a blast. Will wears his best bowtie and his suspenders and Pa’s old suit jacket, and Rosie’s dress is spring green, perfect for the flowery theme. The band is hot, and Kenny is the life of the party, and they dance up a storm with their friends. Will has fun for the first time in at least a good little while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s resolved to walk her home afterwards, because that’s what a good date does, and besides, he already walked her here. School isn’t so far from their houses, and although their street is mostly in the woods, there’s a big, bright moon and a sky full of stars. When they leave the gym, smiling with the music ringing in their ears, Rosie spins a circle in the parking lot and throws her hands out to the night sky. “Ah!” she laughs, her green chiffon skirt swirling all around her like a ballet costume. “Wasn’t that just the </span>
  <em>
    <span>best</span>
  </em>
  <span> dance you’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> had, Will?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will tucks his hands into his pockets and smiles at his friend. “It was great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She meets his eyes. Her blond hair reflects the moonlight, plus the street lamps around the school. It’s in a high, curly ponytail, and she has a flowery comb in it. “Are you walkin’ me home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m definitely not letting you go by yourself,” Will replies, and this makes her laugh. He walks up to fall in line with her, and offers his arm. She wraps both hands tight around it, and off they go, step-in-step. The other students leaving the gym filter out pair by pair, all flowy dresses like Rosie’s and suit jackets like Will’s. Some get in cars, some walk in varying directions around town, a few rebels slip away for undisclosed hijinks. Will catches Kenny’s eye across the parking lot; he and Rita are standing next to his car, laughing together. She’s in striking purple, and his bow tie matches the color. Will raises his arm in a wave. Kent salutes him, and Rita blows him a kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rosie cranes her neck, leaning across him. “Who ya wavin’ to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just Kenny and Rita.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will looks back at her to catch a weird expression on her face— maybe something of a grimace, but they spent time with the two of them all night and Rosie was fine, so he’s not sure why she’d feel differently about them now, since it’s only been five minutes since they last saw them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, anyway. They walk along some more, headed down the street that leads toward home. Rosie holds to his arm and hums one of the most popular songs the band played tonight, one that got the whole auditorium on their feet. She bops along to the beat, and Will laughs a little. Rosie plays flute in the school band, and her love for music has shone through tonight for sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gosh, how about that </span>
  <em>
    <span>jive</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” she says. “I’ve never seen you dance that much in my whole life!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve</span>
  </em>
  <span> never danced that much in my life,” Will replies, laughing at himself a little. “You have good energy. It makes it easy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rosie looks very pleased with herself. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should,” Will tells her. “I had fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So did I,” she says. “Loads of it. Can we do it again sometime?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will nods— a little at first, then more. “I’d be happy to go to the next dance with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rosie’s smile flickers just a little, and Will is suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that he may have just said something wrong. But before he can scramble to fix it, Rosie is singing to herself again, and he figures whatever it was, it must not have been enough to really hurt her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooh.” She shivers a little on his arm. “It’s chilly out tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is,” Will replies, and from the way she’s looking at his shoulder, Will is at least ninety percent sure that she’s fishing for his suit jacket— and although he wants to be a good date, that’s the one thing he just can’t do. It’s Pa’s only layman jacket, and he won’t relinquish it even for a second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The roads are quieter the further from school they get. When they turn onto their road, long and winding with the actual houses relatively scarce, it’s almost totally dark— but Will’s vision has adjusted enough to the night that it’s not too much of a problem. He knows the way home like the back of his hand— he bikes to and from school every day, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crickets chirp; the owl occasionally hoots somewhere in the woods. Rosie holds to his arm and hums into the moonlit night. They walk the dirt road like this until they’ve passed Will’s driveway on the way up to hers, at which point Rosie starts, “Will… do you wanna know somethin’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” Will can’t see her mailbox yet, but he knows they’re coming up on it. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” Rosie tilts her head towards his shoulder. “There’s been some rumors… that you and I are goin’ together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This stops Will dead in his tracks— but not literally; he keeps walking. He just has to take a second to process her, and when he finally comes up with a response, it’s, “Oh. The two of us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, us two, silly,” she echoes with a gentle push to his shoulder, and there’s a sweetness to her voice that Will knows can’t lead anywhere good— for him, anyway. He can feel his face heating up, and he’s suddenly grateful for the dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?” Rosie says after he’s quiet for too long. “What do you think about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh.” The burning intensifies, creeps to his ears. “Well. I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Rosie actually does stop walking. It happens so that Will stumbles just a little, even though she isn’t abrupt. Instead, she’s graceful. She turns to face him, and Will can see her in the low light, all bright eyes and blond ponytail curls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will should see it coming, but he doesn’t. When she kisses him, he jumps. It’s only a peck, but it’s enough to send his brain into disorient. He knows he must be </span>
  <em>
    <span>bright</span>
  </em>
  <span> red now— and though Rosie doesn’t touch him aside from the quick visit of her lips, his skin crawls. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not right, not right, not right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice is still like sugar. “What do you think about it now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will does the worst possible thing in this moment— he panics and can’t speak. If he can see Rosie’s face from here, he’s pretty sure she can see how flushed he is. It’s all the worse for it, and alarm bells sound in his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Say something! You have to say something. You can’t just stand here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rosie, it’s—” He stumbles over his words. “I don’t know; it’s not like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If a body could deflate, that’s what Rosie’s does. Her face falls, and she takes a step back, which should at least put Will’s blush out of such high visibility— but his stomach turns circles at the sight of her hurt, and he adds, “It’s not you.” When she looks back up, he says, “It’s me. Really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tilts her head to the side so her whole ponytail bounces. Will takes a long, deep belly breath, to stabilize himself, before he starts, very carefully, to frame his explanation. “Listen, Rosie— it’s— I can’t tell you why, but we can’t be together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She isn’t looking convinced; she folds her arms and scowls. “Oh. So you really don’t like me? Is there someone else? Why’d you gotta take me to the dance if you don’t like me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Rosie, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> like you—” He backtracks, brain reeling, heart pounding, face burning. “I like you as my friend; I think you’re great, but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you don’t wanna go with me,” she finishes. “You wanna go with someone else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No— yes, but no— God, this cannot be happening. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He has to do something. He has to fix this. In that moment, the openness of the sky and the air outside is anything but wide; the woods are suffocating and the dirt road is caging him in. He’s stuck. Tell her the truth, and risk everything— his friends, his safety, the world as he knows it. Lie, and fool his poor friend into thinking he’s something he isn’t, that he feels something there’s not even a trace of.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Okay. Will takes another breath, and he wrings his hands behind his back. “I just… okay.” He pauses. “You know Kenny?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rosie’s face contorts a little, like she’s gotten whiff of a bad scent. “Of course I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will rocks back and forth on his heels, squeezes his hands together out of her sight. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Say it. Just say it. You have to say it now. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I’m— I’m like him, y’know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, he doesn’t want to watch for her reaction— but as the fire engulfs his face and his ears and his whole Goddamn body, he forces himself to look up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face is blank for a moment, and she’s quiet. Then she laughs, shakes her head. “You’re joking,” she says— and then her voice becomes a chide. “It’s not nice to make fun of those people, y’know, Will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Will breathes, and then it’s like a tape rewinds in his brain as he blurts, “Oh, no, I know. I— </span>
  <em>
    <span>ha</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Yeah. I was— I was just kidding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rosie forces out the most awkward laugh he’s ever heard in his life. Before she can say anything, he’s scrambling, covering up his tracks, splashing a bucket on a housefire. “I’m sorry, Rosie. I— I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I— I guess I kinda like Francine Williamson.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cringes so deeply inside himself for this, and even more so when he sees the hurt on Rosie’s face. She huddles her arms around herself, taking a few steps backwards. “I knew it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Will blurts, and if he got any warmer he thinks he could melt right into the ground and become one with the dirt road. “I’m sorry, Rosie. I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just save it.” Rosie holds out her hand to quiet him. She’s shaking her head. She studies him for a moment, then turns to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a special kind of obtuse, Will Poindexter, you know that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his pockets, Will clenches his hands into fists, like he can channel all the tension through his arms and release it from his brain. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head one last time, throws her hand at him, and mutters, “Save it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she walks by herself the rest of the way to her mailbox, a swishing figure in green in the dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will lets out a long, billowing sigh, and runs his hands through his hair, tearing at the thick part at the top of his head. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he whispers, once she’s gone and out of earshot. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t curse much at all, but this most definitely warrants the use of that word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trudges back down the road to his driveway, where he makes the walk all the way to the front door of the farmhouse. Ma is asleep, so he grabs the phone from the kitchen, shuts himself in the pantry, and calls Kenny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From that night, he drifts apart from Rosie. But there will soon be more pressing things to occupy his foremost worries.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I love you all. This is how I’m staying sane during quarantine. Yell at me in the comments. Peace out.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 1952 (again)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just when you thought it couldn’t get sadder! This one gets dark at the very end. Content warnings for terminal illness.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>iv.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>October 1952</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ma’s cough is bad this morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will doesn’t even notice it right away, but that’s mainly due to the fact that he’s been out doing his morning chores since the crack of dawn. It’s a Saturday, so there isn’t any school— but Will always gets up early no matter what the day holds, so he’s out raising the flag at sunrise today. It’s cold— one of the first really cold mornings of the season, with summer finally fading and clearing the way for autumn. Will wears his brown jacket and a flannel to block out some of the chill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ma usually gets up early, too— not </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> as early as he does, but still early enough, and she’ll make breakfast and do some cleaning and get ready for her day. With the season changing, a lot of Ma’s time will start to be taken up by preservation and prep for the winter— canning vegetables, making jams and preserves, bunching and drying herbs from the garden. Will handles the more menial tasks in the barn, and they both work together keeping the yard in order.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This morning, Will does feeds right after he puts up the flag; the hens cluster at his boots for their corn, and the cows eat right out of his hand. He notes the presence of a few new eggs in the coop, but he’ll come back for them with his basket in a little while. There’s a science to the routine— a deviation would throw it off-kilter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Will is done with his first round of barn chores, and he crosses the yard to walk back up to the house, the sun has come up, and with it, a brisk breeze that sends leaves flying off the trees in shades of yellow and orange. The yard is already covered in fallen foliage— raking is on Will’s list of things to get done today. It’ll be useless, of course, because when another round of trees shed their leaves in a week’s time, they’ll have to do it again, but it’s part of the rhythm of autumn. Will doesn’t mind raking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the mudroom, he takes off his work boots— it’s breakfast time, and Ma has probably already started cooking by now. He’ll help her, and they’ll eat together. They always eat together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when he walks into the kitchen, things aren’t exactly as they should be. Ma is </span>
  <em>
    <span>awake</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and she’s downstairs and dressed the way she usually is before a day of work. But she’s not cooking. She’s actually not doing anything. She’s hunched against the counter, one hand to her chest, the other propped with her elbow like she’s holding herself up. Her back is to Will, so he can’t see her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ma?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, darling.” Her voice is raspy— it’s been that way frequently, because of her cough, but this morning it’s scarcely a ghost of a noise at all. She coughs a few times. “I’m sorry I got a slow start.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will paces to the counter in a hurry. When he rounds it and gets a good look at her, he finds familiarity in her face full of freckles— but she’s paler than usual. “Are you feeling okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ma straightens as they meet eyes. Nowadays, she’s much shorter than him even at her full height— he’s soared over six feet over the past year or so. But even this way, inches below him, she stands tall and strong— or at least she tries to. The cough is starting to hurt her whole body— she’s grown skinnier, paler, more sickly. She’s done all the usual work to put herself together— wild hair pulled into a bandana, work shoes laced up, clean overalls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m doing just fine.” He knows she’s lying, and the coughs that follow her words prove his own point to himself. “And yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” he replies. “You don’t look so good. I can handle the chores today—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be silly,” she tells him, and her words are stern but her tone is gentle. “I’ll be right there with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Ma, your cough—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“William,” she says, and he halts, because there’s no use continuing when he’s been full named. “I’m okay. I promise you. Will you help me make breakfast? Did you do feeds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I did feeds,” he replies, and as she turns to open the pantry door, he resolves himself to just do his very best to make her work as non-labor-intensive as possible today. Then she can go to bed early, get a good night’s rest. He’ll make her dinner, she decides. Or maybe he should just cook everything? “I can make breakfast for you if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll do it together,” she insists, and with that, she pulls open the pantry door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will sighs. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is the way they work, the way they always have since it’s been just the two of them— a steady collaboration, a perfect system that exists without dictating exactly what it is. They’re a team, and it’s all they have— this house and this farm and this bond between them, it’s all there is. Life has gone on after the loss of Pa, and they make do with each other. Ma is his whole family now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ma makes her way toward the fridge. “Can you get a loaf of bread for me, love?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Will says, and he slips into the pantry to retrieve it. As he’s opening the bread cabinet, there’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>clunk</span>
  </em>
  <span> sound and a splatter outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he hears the cough attack her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a nasty sound, that thing— a ravaging, tearing noise that sounds like it could contort her lungs and toss them right up her throat. It scratches and bores at Will’s ears, and he leaves the bread, rushing back out of the pantry to find Ma hunched over the table in another fit. She’s dropped the basket of eggs from the fridge, and it’s a mess of yolk and sticky whites under her feet, shells split in two by the impact with the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ma—” He paces over to her in a hurry, steps over the eggy mess, and lunges to hold her steady. She leans into him, her shoulders frail against his broad frame, coughing and heaving gasps against his flannel shirt. Holding her, he can feel just how weak her whole body is. Her breathing is a rattling sound, and it sends Will’s stomach turning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eggs,” she chokes finally. “The eggs. I’m— I’m sorry. I dropped—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ma, it’s okay.” Will steadies her by her shoulders, but pulls back to meet her eyes. She swallows tightly, but then wavers, caving in at the chest. “I was just in the coop, remember? The ladies are still laying. We can have new eggs by tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a mess,” is her next weak statement, staring at the ground. “I made a disaster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” he insists. “I can clean it right up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, let me help you.” She actually goes for the rag hanging on the stove, like she’s going to clean it up, but Will stops her. He takes the rag from her, bends to pick up the now-empty egg basket, shakes away the egg white slime it leaves on his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ma is sick. The cough isn’t getting better. If she works outside today, it’ll get worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ma,” Will says gently. “You should rest today. Let me take care of things. I promise, I won’t try to do too much all at once.” He pauses, holds her gaze. “I just don’t think your cough will get any better if you spend all day working in the yard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She studies him. For a second, he thinks she’s going to scold him— she’s never been the type to </span>
  <em>
    <span>angrily</span>
  </em>
  <span> scold, but she’ll give him a talking-to when she thinks he’s being unreasonable. He thinks she’ll tell him that he’s being overly sensitive, that she’s just fine, that a little cough won’t keep her from holding up the farm, even though the cough is far from little and has been going on— among other sickly things— for what feels like months now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will expects resistance. But he doesn’t get it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, Ma nods. It’s a slow, shaky nod. He can see the exhaustion in her eyes. “Alright,” she says finally. “I’ll rest. But only for the day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Will breathes, and he expects to feel better at her compliance. But looking at her, he can’t help but think that maybe this isn’t the kind of cough that goes away with rest. Maybe she’s sicker than he thinks she is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes his stomach turn. He tries to beat the fear down, and he puts a long arm around Ma’s waist to walk by her side— across the kitchen, then he’ll bring her up to her room, put her in bed. “Are you hungry?” he asks her. “I can still make breakfast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ma swallows again. “I’m not all that hungry, darling, but thank you.” Then she adds, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span>— you should eat something. You’ll need your energy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Will replies. “I will. Promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles— it’s a full smile, a real smile, a welcome sight on her paled face. “Good boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will brings her upstairs, instructs her to change back into pajamas, helps her into bed. He props her up on all the pillows he can find, brings her a stack of her gardening magazines, and makes sure the heat is at a good temperature for her. Then he walks downstairs, puts on the kettle, and makes a cup of tea to bring up to her. He puts it in her favorite mug, the big blue one Kent’s mama gave her for Christmas a few years back, and takes the stairs very carefully so he won’t spill any hot water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he gets back to her room, he half expects her to be reading one of the magazines, looking at her flowers and tips for the next bulb plant, but she’s sitting against the pillows on the headboard, eyes closed and hands folded on her chest. She isn’t sleeping— she opens her eyes as she hears him come in— but she at least looks peaceful, not in too much pain for the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be careful,” Will tells her, putting the mug down on her bedside table. “It’s hot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ma smiles again, that warm expression that can make Will feel, at least for the moment, that everything will be okay. “Thank you, darling. You didn’t have to do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, I did</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Will thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Taking care of Ma is part of his job. He’s the man of the house. If she isn’t okay, he hasn’t done what he’s supposed to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That, and she’s Ma. He needs her to be okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will lingers by the bed for a second. “Is there anything else you need?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ma shakes her head. “I’m alright,” she tells him— and then holds out her arms. “But you come here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans down— getting to her level when she’s sitting and he’s standing requires bending over entirely— and she takes hold of his elbows, then kisses both his cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a good boy, Junior,” she whispers— maybe because of her weak voice, maybe because he’s close. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no need to thank me,” he tells her. “I just want you to rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” She smiles. “And I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she rears up to cough, with a nasty breath in, and Will pulls back from her to give her space. He waits for her to be done coughing before he finally bids her a good rest and heads for the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be back to check on you,” he says. “In a little while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ma smiles at him as he goes, and to his relief, she finally picks up one of her garden magazines. As he descends the stairs, he steadies himself and takes a long breath, willing himself not to dwell too much on the sound of her cough or the sickly pale of her face or the raspy pitch of her voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ma’s sick. Maybe he should call the doctor again. He prescribed rest at the last checkup Will called for, but that was six weeks ago, and she hasn’t gotten any better. If anything— his stomach turns at the thought— she’s gotten worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will leaves a note for himself next to the phone to call the doctor, then gets to work on cleaning up the eggs. Whites and yolks soak through the knees of his jeans. It takes three rags. When he’s finally done with that, he starts on breakfast, and moves through his day as usual. He picks up the slack where she’d work and checks up on her every hour. She sleeps a little, but mostly just sits in bed and reads, not looking her best but also at least not up and working and thereby making it any worse. Will calls the doctor mid-afternoon. It’s not quite your average Saturday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What Will can’t see— what he’ll never see— is the tumor growing in her lungs, slowly pulling her strength from her, tearing his world apart from the inside out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’ll be dead by Thanksgiving.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 1961</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey, the title changed!!! Thank you very much to <a href="https://smol0ctopus.tumblr.com/">smol0ctopus</a>, who came to the rescue when I wrote on Tumblr that I kind of hated my own title for this 5+1. Blessings and good vibes.</p><p>Anyway, part 5. This one might <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089940/chapters/54834385">look familiar.</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>v.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May 1961</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Regarding Derek, Will knows two things for certain. Firstly, that he is from the future. And secondly, that he is a major pain in his ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The prior is a more outlandish thing to know for certain than the former, but after days upon weeks of deliberation and confusion, Will has resolved himself to act upon the principle that it’s true. This is mostly because he has no way to rationalize to himself that it’s false. When Derek walked into the diner on one of the first sunny days of April, Will knew there was something off about him from the start. He made weird comments about the decor and technology all around Good Haven, and references to things Will couldn’t even begin to explain. He brought with him items like a strange glass slab he called a phone, and photos printed in color. When he tried to answer Will’s questions about the future, his voice would sound like static.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Will thinks this over in his mind, he knows it sounds crazy. But he also knows it’s true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will doesn’t know how he got here. Not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>Derek</span>
  </em>
  <span> really knows how he got here— just that he drove over the town line and was suddenly seventy years in the past. What Derek claims about Good Haven is as unexplainable as his entire presence here— that it’s just this town, and that driving away brings him back to his own time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which leads to the obvious next most strange thing— that Derek hasn’t gone home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, he sits across from Will at the diner bar, in the same stool he always occupies. He’s become such a frequent patron of Annie’s— always coming during Will’s shifts, to chat him up and write in the journal he carries everywhere— that he’s almost started to feel like one of the old town regulars. Will knows his order without being told, and refills his coffee automatically. It’s week five of Derek’s extended stay in Good Haven— and from the way things have been going, he doesn’t seem intent on leaving anytime soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will can’t for the life of him figure out why someone would want to stay somewhere miles and years away from home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will is the last one working tonight; it’s his normal four to close Wednesday shift, and Kenny left awhile ago, after the dinner rush. It’s never all that busy during these quiet hours of Will’s solitude— or at least it never was, until Derek came to town. He seems to thrive on staying during Will’s shifts, maybe just to be a nuisance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will is cleaning the cashier’s counter, but he glances in the direction of the bar when Derek calls his name. He’s sprawled across the surface, pencil in-hand, journal open in front of him. But his eyes, at least for the moment, are all Will’s. The jukebox is humming some song that was popular when his parents were alive. It makes Will’s stomach hurt a little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s only then that he realizes he hasn’t responded to Derek. He meets his eyes across the room warily. “Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you always have to do this close by yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will furrows his brow, then glances down at himself— apron, work uniform, rag in-hand. “Closing by myself isn’t unusual,” he tells him. “It’s usually empty anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek flashes a smile. There’s something about the way he looks that begs you to pay attention to him— clear brown skin, floppy dark curls, jade green eyes. His jawline could cut like a knife, and he has a strong frame— it doesn’t help that he tends to wear tight clothes. Today, that means a blue t-shirt with its long sleeves pulled up to his elbows, which is hellish in that it bears forearms that are more than a little distracting.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Will shakes himself out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It occurs to him that Derek has said something that he didn’t hear. He pretends to be cleaning the bar sink so it’s not obvious that he was completely zoned out for this ordeal, and says, “Sorry? Could you repeat that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said, I feel like you want me to leave,” Derek says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will feels heat rush to his face, which no doubt colors his cheeks, if not his ears. “I didn’t say that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Derek shrugs, returning to his journal. “I’ll stay, then.” All his motions are swaying, suave— he can never just sit still at the bar. Or anywhere, if his lumbering around the diner is any indication. “Suit yourself, big Dexy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t call me that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh</span>
  <em>
    <span>o</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Derek makes a little chuckling noise. “Sir, yes sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will bristles as he cleans. In a relatively brief period of time, Derek has learned exactly how to get under his skin, right down to picking up the nickname only Kent has ever called him all his life. Derek walks the line carefully between friend and downright nuisance— and Will really still can’t figure out where to categorize him. Or why he cares so much about doing so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This place does wonders for my creative process,” Derek is saying. “I’ve written, like—” Will sees him flip back through previous pages in his journal— “Twenty pages today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s wonderful,” Will deadpans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious!” Derek throws his head to the sky. “It’s a huge improvement for me. I’m telling you, Dexy. Annie’s Diner is a magical place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will half snorts. “Magical?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek points his pencil to him. “Like a Goddamn Disney movie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will goes back to cleaning, and Derek spins around in his barstool, deliberating out loud— “Wait… do you even have Disney movies yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Will replies with a sigh. “We do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, the modern ones are way better,” Derek says. “Right now it’s all white people shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will furrows his brow. “I’m white people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek chuckles. “Yes, you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will shoots him a look at that comment— but Derek is unreadable, smirking at his notebook. Will tries not to let the heat in his face get any worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, within a few minutes, it’s over— the minute hand on the clock slips past the hour, an observation Will makes when he looks up after cleaning. He lets out what he hopes isn’t an audible exhale. “Well,” he says. “It’s three past twelve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek eyes the clock and seems surprised by this discovery. He maybe even frowns a little. “Huh,” he says. “I had no idea it was this late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will waits for him to start packing up— his canvas bag is open on the stool next to him, the way it usually is— and when he doesn’t, Will makes his way around the bar to turn off the jukebox and the dining room lights. Derek seems to take the hint, as Will hears the sound of rummaging and zippers, of squeaking barstools. When he rounds the back of the bar again, the only thing that remains is his tip jar, which he has yet to empty. He unscrews the top and turns it on his side, vaguely aware of Derek’s eyes on him as he does so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he sorts through the bills and change, Will surveys his customer. Can he even call him a customer? Derek seems to think they’re friends. They’ve certainly spent enough time in each other’s company to constitute that fact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Why is Derek still here? What is it about this diner, about this town, that keeps him from getting his life back to normal?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe, deep down, in a corner of himself he hasn’t yet faced head-on, Will isn’t as preoccupied with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> as he is with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe continually deliberating why Derek is here is what keeps him from acknowledging the fact that he can’t stop thinking about him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because sure, Derek may be gorgeous. Will knows this, sees it, as he stands across from him in the low light of the diner. But Derek is also a highly inaccessible person— and Will doesn’t have the time or the inclination to feel this way about someone whose rejection will only cause him hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Within the folds of a few dollar bills, Will finds a piece of paper in the jar. He knows what it is before he even begins to unfold it— it’s another of Derek’s poems, slipped in here maybe for Derek’s entertainment, or maybe just to get a rise out of Will. It’s on blue paper today, and he lets out a soft sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s getting tired of these poems, but he reads this one anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>he bristles when he looks at me</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i watch irritation find him</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>it seems to gravitate to him</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>magnetic</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>it’s a crimson torrent over a face full of freckles, and</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>for fun,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i needle at him</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i see just how far i can go</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Will squints at the page.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This doesn’t sound like the jar poems usually do.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i don’t know him,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>not well, but</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i want to know him</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>he’s a pillar of flame,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>a shock of light,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>and his eyes could give the sunrise a run for their money.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>when he’s confused,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>the bridge of his nose wrinkles,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>clustering the stars on his skin.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>crisp shirts pull over broad shoulders,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>hair like an unbridled bonfire,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>a pointy nose upturned at me,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>like i’m a bad stench he can’t get out in the wash,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>and let me be one,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>if it means he’ll look at me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Will’s stomach turns.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>but he’s far</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>here in front of me, but he’s miles away,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>hours and days and decades</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>separate us from what could be</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>could i bridge the space between us?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>could i count those stars on his skin,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>look closer into golden eyes,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>let the firestorm wash over me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>could i know him? because god,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>god, do i want to know him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>he is all i want to know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he reaches the end of the poem, Will is certain that all the blood in his body has rushed to his face. He reads the last lines over, like maybe that’ll change what they say. His heart is pounding, and his ears are scorching, and he can barely bring himself to tear his eyes away from the paper but when he does—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>— when he does, Derek is </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiling</span>
  </em>
  <span>, maybe even smirking, and Will wants to crawl in a hole because he looks so perfect, like he’s some kind of angel with curly hair and gleaming brown skin. He can’t handle him, can’t process him, can’t understand his constant oscillation between wanting him close and wanting him gone, and this </span>
  <em>
    <span>poem</span>
  </em>
  <span>— his </span>
  <em>
    <span>smile</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s so funny?” he snaps, before he can stop himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For his part, it looks like Derek makes an earnest effort to stop smiling. “Huh?” he says, like a doofus, like he has no idea what’s on the paper in Will’s hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this supposed to be?” Will waves the blue page at him. “And I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> you put it in my jar, so don’t lie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek takes a moment, looking between Will and the paper. Will bristles, seethes, as the words of the poem echo in his ears. As Derek rests his face into his hand, he’s so nonchalant that Will can hardly stand it. “It’s a poem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A poem about me,” Will says. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot</span>
  </em>
  <span> handle this man. He’s reached his wit’s end. “Why are you writing about me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek looks completely unfazed. “Well,” he says, “when the muse strikes…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> funny,” Will spits, before he can stop himself. “That’s so funny. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank </span>
  </em>
  <span>you. Seriously.” He rolls his eyes at the poem, even though he feels the least thing from flippant about this, unlike Derek. “Tell you what— why don’t you find someone else to pick on, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Derek pauses a little. He narrows his eyebrows. Will cannot even </span>
  <em>
    <span>begin</span>
  </em>
  <span> to believe that this is happening to him at the hands of this man; he’s never been so mortified in his life. “Pick on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think you’re so </span>
  <em>
    <span>clever</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Will seethes, “waltzing in here with no responsibilities; it must be </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span> not to have any responsibilities except mocking the staff of a restaurant you don’t even—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think I’m mocking you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I sure as hell know it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>sincere</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he hisses, ears pounding, “and for the record, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>appreciate it. So why don’t you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek straightens in his stool, then interrupts again. His gaze is searching, and he’s not smiling anymore, not even a little, but Will is still burning. “You think I’m… </span>
  <em>
    <span>mocking</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I think you’re mocking me!” What else would Derek be doing? “Do you take me for an idiot?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek shakes his head. “Of course not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Laughing while I read your stupid tip poems.” Will crumples the page, then drops his hand down onto the bar; he slams it maybe a little harder than he intends, but he can’t shake this anger, this humiliation. All he sees is the stupid smile on Derek’s face when he finished reading the poem. “Do you think I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m funny-looking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the unspeakable happens— Derek is quiet; he has no wise-ass response. He sobers a little; there’s no trace of a smile on his face, and his eyes soften. When his words come, they’re not biting or snarky, not even lighthearted. “Will…” he says. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t mocking you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will stares back at him. Should he believe him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What the hell does it mean if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> mock you,” Derek adds. “Especially not like that. I promise you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will blinks at him, and the tension in his shoulders lets up a little. He unclenches his fist to look down at the crumpled poem. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I would never mock you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Derek’s voice echoes in his ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then that means… that means the poem is </span>
  <em>
    <span>sincere</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and— and oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>, what does </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> mean about Derek—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek is— like him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But if he is, he’s so fearless— and he can’t be that way, not here, not in this town, not in this century, not on Will’s watch. Will has no room to wonder what his motivations are for being so confident. It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It never has been. Derek’s poetry is a step over the line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look,” he begins, and his voice comes out low. He closes his hand again around the poem; it’s sweaty in his clammy palm by now. “I don’t— I don’t know what it’s like where you come from, or why you’ve decided to station yourself in my town for your entertainment.” He wills himself to just keep it together, long enough, at least, to get his point across, and then he can ask Derek to leave and everything will be fine. It’ll be fine. His heart isn’t pounding. “I’ve never been to New York,” he says, “and I’ve certainly never been to the future, and I have no intention of visiting either. But whatever it’s like where you come from, it— it isn’t— it isn’t like that here. Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek looks confused. Will can’t meet his eyes. He stares at the top of his head instead, at the curls that jut out from under his green hat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It isn’t like that here,” he says again, “and whatever you’re trying to do, I’m not in the business of figuring out what it means or why it involves me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean by—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t give Derek time to finish his question. He puts the poem down in front of him, letting go of it for good this time, and says, “Here. Take your stupid poem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek is quiet. When he looks up at Will, they make eye contact, and Will wishes he could get a handle on his pulsing heartbeat. At least Derek can’t detect that— but what he probably </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> detect is the definite blush on his face; his cheeks feel like they’ve heated to the temperature of the sun and the color of Pa’s old truck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Will can’t take this, he can’t take being stared at, not by him, not after this poem, not with all the sinful, unreachable thoughts swirling in his head— he can’t do this. He can’t. Derek is too much, and he wants him more than he can even quantify, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t keep wanting him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so he snaps. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you get one?” He nods to the door. “We’re closed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yo—” Derek stumbles over himself at the bar, and then, in true Derek fashion, says, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Chill</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Dexy—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t tell me to chill!” Will feels his temper rising, feels the breaking point on the horizon. “And don’t call me that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek flashes a smile so smugly beautiful that it makes Will want to hit something. “Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you best wipe that stupid smirk off your face,” he tells him, like it’ll work on him, like it’ll help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” Derek leans across the bar, hanging on the edge by his stool. He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic, and his smirk remains. “Why don’t you come over here and make me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will seethes. He is so entitled and pretentious and gorgeous and </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He ought to fight him, like a real man, to show him he means business. He can’t get the pounding in his chest under control, and he operates on autopilot as he steps forward. He grabs at Derek’s collar, and gears up to spit something back, to really put him in his place—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>— and before he can—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>— before he can, Derek is kissing him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A thousand alarms go off at once in his head. It’s a sudden and hard kiss, and Will has been kissed before but not like this, not in a way that makes him so hyper-aware of the other person’s lips on his, and he feels his face impossibly redden as warmth floods to it from all over his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For at least three entire seconds, he forgets how to think. He squeezes his eyes shut, and it’s white behind his eyelids, and for weeks his subconscious has been thinking about the possibility of this but nothing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> could have prepared him for what it actually feels like—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then his senses return. He yanks himself off of him, nearly falls backwards in the resulting momentum. His heart thumps out of his chest. What is he </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing</span>
  </em>
  <span>? What if someone saw? What if Derek goes and turns him in— oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’s never wanted anything that much before— he can’t do this; he can’t do this—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek starts to smile at him, but the expression dissolves the second he meets Will’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. Will feels frozen. “I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out of my diner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t stop the words before they’re out. “Will,” Derek says again. His voice is fragile. “I’m sorry. I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Go</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Will tells him. He steps away from the bar, into the alcoves by the kitchen. Derek seems to take the hint, and he scrambles to leave, out the front door with a jingle of the bell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All at once, Will can’t breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has no idea what he was expecting, but that wasn’t it. The only thing he wasn’t prepared for was the thing he maybe wanted most of all.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 1961 (again)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all for indulging me and letting me post this. Last one! Like the fifth chapter, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089940/chapters/55089817">it might look familiar</a>.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>one time he kissed back</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May 1961</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The damage control takes place in three parts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first is talking to Kenny. He does so after Derek ghosts at the diner for the first time since they met. Kenny takes about three seconds to realize that something is up, and only a few more minutes to coax it out of Will. Will laments his own stupidity and tells him the truth— that he has no idea what to do. Kenny gives him sound advice— and part two of damage control constitutes putting that advice into action.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Will makes a plan. He will not avoid Derek. He will not pretend what happened didn’t happen. But most importantly, he won’t avoid himself and the way he feels. It’s the most terrifying thing he’s ever decided to do, but he wants to do it right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his Saturday night off, he packs a basket of food, puts it in his trunk with a blanket, and dons some of his nicer clothes— a button-down with his suspenders, plus a tan bow tie that matches his slacks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his way out the door, he picks a bunch of Ma’s peonies, in full, feathery bloom. He puts the bouquet on the seat next to him in the truck, then drives downtown to Bittle’s, pep-talking himself the whole way there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can do this. Either one thing will happen, or the other will. He will be okay with either. He will make himself be okay with either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although he has to confess he’s really hoping for one particular outcome of the two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are a few cars in the lot at the inn, but his truck is a dead giveaway for himself, so he parks in the corner by the water tower and walks around the backside of the building. Most every window is flooded with warm light— it’s a busy weekend for Eric.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows which window he’s looking for— it’s on the second floor and at the corner of the house. When he finds it, it’s lit up, and the shade is lifted, but he can’t exactly see inside— so he hides himself in a rhododendron that’s in full bloom, then reaches to the ground and acquires a handful of pebbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his first toss, there’s no answer to their clack at the glass. On his second, a mostly shadowy figure appears. He’s gearing up for his third when Derek leans down into the window entirely, and they meet eyes. Will hides the flower behind his back and waves with his free hand vigorously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek opens up the window. He’s in a loose t-shirt, and his curls are unruly. Surprised as he looks to see him, he’s beautiful. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Will</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shhh</span>
  </em>
  <span>—” Will shushes him as he pokes his head out of the pink bush. Derek said his name too loud for his liking, and he hopes and prays that nobody heard. “Derek, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shhh</span>
  </em>
  <span>; be quiet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing here?” This time, Derek’s voice is quieter, but it could still carry across the yard, and they can’t take any chances. Will tries again, shushing him vigorously. He’s halfway in and halfway out of the rhododendron, and he can tell that he looks ridiculous, because Derek laughs a little, then asks, “Why are you hiding in a bush?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s… it’s complicated.” Will sighs and removes himself from the flowery mess. “But I’m here to apologize.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel Derek’s eyes on him as he takes him in— is he overdressed? Definitely not, right? At least not by his own standards; maybe Derek has a completely different set of 2021 standards, and he thinks Will looks like an idiot. Derek is quiet for a few seconds, like he’s processing, and then he says, “Apologize?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the other night,” Will mumbles, then notices a fragile flower has stuck itself in one of his suspenders. He pulls it out, then takes a deep breath. “I… I was rude to you,” he says. “And I didn’t handle things well, and I’m sorry I accused you of mocking me when you weren’t—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t,” Derek cuts in, which only throws him off a little. He’s practiced this speech what feels like a million times, in front of his bathroom mirror and during his barn chores and in the truck on the way over here, but standing in front of this man makes his brain feel like a blank slate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” he replies. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keep it together. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“And— I’m sorry I’ve been so short with you. I… I’m sorry I threw you out.” He pauses for another deep breath, gives an instinctive glance around like someone might be listening. Eric’s backyard isn’t the safest place to have this conversation, but he has no idea how else he would’ve gotten to Derek. “I didn’t react well to what happened, and I’ve missed you at work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hopes he’s been vague enough not to make himself too obvious to an eavesdropper, but clear enough for Derek to understand. Derek is quiet for a few seconds, looking down at him, and when he finally speaks, it isn’t so much a response as it is a question. “Why are you all dressed up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs. This would have come up eventually, right? He’s only blushing a little, or at least he hopes he is. “Because… Derek… look.” He glances around again, but the coast is clear. He blinks tightly, like not meeting his eyes will make the thing that he’s about to say out loud less embarrassing. “I like you.” He bites his lip, waits for God to come and smite him. Nothing happens. He opens his eyes. “But we should talk about it,” he adds. “Because I think things are different in your, ah— your </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But why are you dressed up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Agh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There’s no getting around it, he guesses. Better to just bite the bullet and let Derek decide what happens next. “Because if you’ll have me,” he says, “and </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> if you’ll have me, I’m here to take you on a date.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek is silent for a few terrifying seconds. Maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> is the moment where God comes and smites them. Will watches the sky for lightning bolts. Nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A date?” Derek says, in a voice that’s almost breathy. “You and me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and me,” Will replies, nodding, “but only if you want to.” He tries not to read too far into the slowly growing smile on Derek’s face. “I have food. In my truck. Dinner. Like a picnic.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ. Can’t you speak like a normal human being?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“A picnic?” Derek echoes, with a full smile by now. “Say no more, Poindexter. I’m coming down there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Derek’s willingness sends a rush to his head, and he feels himself smile. “Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really,” Derek replies, leaning on the window. Will is </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> blushing now. “I’m gonna change though,” he adds. “You look great. I want to look nice, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Will a second longer than it should to realize he’s been complimented. “Well, thank you,” he manages, like he’s not internally shouting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll come down there,” Derek is saying. “Five minutes, tops.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Will replies, “but we have to be inconspicuous.” He’s planned this out— with more detail than he wants to admit— and has the game plan down to a science. “I have a red truck,” he tells Derek. “It’s on the corner just past the water tower. Can you meet me there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek nods. “I’m on it,” he says, and the window closes, and Will sort of laughs, because is this happening? Is this really happening?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Five minutes later, Derek Nurse walks to his truck in all his glory, in a nice cream sweater and a collared shirt, and Will helps him into the truck, and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>really is </span>
  </em>
  <span>happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes him to the pond, tucked into the woods a mile or so behind his house. It’s a good place for a picnic, even one lit mostly by moonlight. They talk the whole way there, and, thank God, it isn’t weird— there have been strange happenings in the days they’ve been apart, but they agree to enjoy the night. Will spreads out the picnic blanket and cracks open the basket, and they eat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s different from the diner. Will isn’t working, and Derek isn’t writing. They have nothing but each other’s company— and by God, is it good company. Will’s chest is warm. He is very certain that he’s never felt quite like this about anything in his life. It’s also his first date, but he doesn’t tell Derek that— at least, not right away. It comes out a little ways into their conversations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They swap stories old and new, talking and laughing with each other, sitting a few feet apart on the blanket. At first, they aren’t touching, but Derek eventually sprawls himself out in a way that his sneaker rests comfortably against Will’s thigh, and neither of them moves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stay put long after the food is finished. Derek is theatrical— when he tells stories, it feels like you’re really there. That’s how, after awhile of talking, he gets Will in stitches laughing with a story about falling down the stairs of his college library.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So. There I was,” Derek is saying, while Will snickers into his hands. “Top of the stairs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, God,” Will mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get down six steps.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I miss the seventh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will lets a loud laugh escape him, just picturing it. “Trip over myself,” Derek continues. “Tumble down the stairs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Full</span>
  </em>
  <span> somersault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will’s laughs rack his whole body; he holds onto his stomach, squeezes his eyes shut. “I somehow wind up at he bottom of the stairs,” Derek says, “flat on my back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will covers his mouth like it’ll stifle his laugh, but it’s no use. “Were you injured?” he manages to ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only my ego,” Derek replies, brushing at his sleeve. “It was not my finest hour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did—” Will shakes his head and puts both hands on his stomach. The mental image is on a cinematic loop in his brain, like something out of the Three Stooges. “Did people ask if you were okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ch’yeah, they did,” Derek says. “But I just gave em’ a—” He sticks one thumb up. “And peaced out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loses himself to his laugh again. It’s half the story itself and half the way Derek tells it. He can’t help but think that he can’t remember the last time he laughed this hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep,” Derek is saying. “That’s it. Laugh at my embarrassment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You offered to tell the story!” Will protests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m self-roasting at my own expense.” Derek is smiling at him. “I guess it’s true what they say about gingers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will composes himself at least for a pause, but Derek answers the question he doesn’t actually ask. “That you have no souls.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ha</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Will presses a fist to his mouth; his entire stomach hurts. He’s going to start shedding real tears if he doesn’t get himself under control in about two seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek laughs, too, probably just because laughter is contagious, and it’s a sweet, sweet sound in Will’s ears. He can feel the burning heat in his own face, and for once in his life he’s actually okay with that, because he’s red for joy and not embarrassment. Oh, maybe it’s a little embarrassing to absolutely lose himself laughing like this— but somehow, in this moment, he’s okay with Derek being the one to witness that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he finally gets himself under control, he puts his hands over his face, exhales at the sky, and shakes his head with a smile as he finally looks back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, looking at him, he’s overcome with the sudden but very strong feeling that he really wants to kiss Derek right now— not like the other night but for real this time. The feeling hits him like a truck. He’s admitted to himself that he likes him, but as he looks across the picnic blanket at him, at his smile and his curls and his sprawl, he suddenly wants all of him; he wants to kiss him and be kissed and know what Derek’s body feels like up close. To think it, to feel it, makes his face burn all the more, but he wants this feeling; he wants this lightness in his chest and ache from laughter in his stomach and flush in his face. He wants Derek— all of him— the way they are right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When quiet falls, Derek says, “Your ears are red.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Screw it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Will leans across the blanket and kisses him hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a brief moment in time, they’re both frozen. Will’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s propped forward in his seat, teetering on the edge of what could be so much more, and all he can do is pray.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Derek kisses him back, and Will’s soul sings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, he lets himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> more— the other night, all he could do was panic and process, but tonight, kissing Derek is a whole new sensory world. His lips are soft and full— Will knew they would be— and they’re gentle against his own; he kisses him back with a quiet intensity that sends a stir into Will’s stomach. When the first kiss becomes more than one, Will finds Derek’s jaw with his right hand, and cradles the side of his face as Derek leans into him. He’s warm. He’s so close. It’s a sensation like flying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will feels a warm hand on the inside of his extended arm, so he thumbs at his jaw in return, moves a gentle finger over the bone that moves as they kiss. When they come up for air for the first time, they stay close— Will finds Derek’s forehead with his own, and then Derek whispers, “Is this okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes— </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Will says, his words half an exhale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek shifts now— he moves both of his hands to Will’s waist, which sends an electric shock up his body in the very best way. Then he pulls him a little closer, slots their bodies better together. “How about this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will nods vigorously. Coherent sentences may be out of the question, but he’ll use every ounce of body language to convey his compliance. “Yes. Very okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek’s mouth quirks with a lopsided, beautiful smile. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Chill</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will lets his lips meet that smile, and they’re kissing again. Derek’s hands are strong on his waist; his thumbs press gently into where his suspenders are. Once Will has settled confidently enough into the rhythm of their kissing, he rests a hand on his shoulder and puts the other through his curls— God, he’s been wanting to do that. Derek’s hair is thick and just as floppy as it looks. He thinks he’s definitely smiling against his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s been kissed, but never like this. Never even close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breathing during kissing is harder than he thinks it’s going to be, though, and when they take a pause to do just that, Will feels himself redden a little (if it’s possible to be any more red than he already is). “Sorry if I’m not so good at this,” he blurts. “I’ve never—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, hey, Will— </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Derek’s nose brushes his, and they meet eyes in the low light, barely apart from each other at all. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> good at this. Trust me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will is half mesmerized by Derek’s eyes, but he manages, “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And besides,” he adds, “even if you weren’t, you’re you. And that’s all I want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Will smiles. His stomach does that thing again. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They kiss. They kiss again and again. Will can’t get enough of this one feeling, new as it is, and he knows it might sound crazy to even think this but he knows there’s a chance he might actually be </span>
  <em>
    <span>falling </span>
  </em>
  <span>for this man— which would be outrageously unexpected, not to mention not allowed. Even though he knows he can’t have it, he wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> all the time— he wants more dates, to kiss him for hours, to hold him and be held. He wants to feel the way he felt right after that long laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t have it— at least, not in general. But he can have it tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckles a little; it’s a noise he doesn’t realize he’s about to make until it comes. It causes a stoppage in their kissing, which is unfortunate. “You okay?” Derek asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes— yeah, yes, I’m sorry,” Will says. “I just—” He laughs again, in spite of himself. “I can’t remember the last time I laughed as hard as I did right before I kissed you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek flashes a huge smile. “Well, in that case, I’m proud of myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should be,” Will replies. He settles his hand at the back of his neck, near where his shirt meets his sweater, and Derek pulls him just the tiniest bit closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to do it again,” he adds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kiss me?” Will meets his eyes. “Or make me laugh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek laughs. The noise is sweeter than music. “All of the above.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will smiles. “You can,” he tells him. “You can have all that.” And he kisses him again and again, content not to move for a good long while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is so much to think about, so much to do. Derek is from another world, and he knows he can’t have this— knows this is only for tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But tonight, he has him right where he wanted him. And tonight, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, Derek wants him back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he gives himself up, whatever may come of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Derek have no idea of the storm they’re in for.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WooOOOO that last line is so vague and strange! I do not accept responsibility for any panic it causes. :)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Want more of this universe? <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089940?view_full_work=true">Here's</a> where you can read the main story.</p><p><a href="https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/">Come hang out</a> on tumblr if you want, and thank you so much for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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